


Sparks

by The13thBlackCat



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Crushes, Cullen instantly develops a crush and is flustered about it, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Oblivious, Pre-Canon, because he can't handle talking to pretty people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:22:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28482336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The13thBlackCat/pseuds/The13thBlackCat
Summary: Not long into his first year in the Circle, Cullen meets a mage apprentice who seems all too happy to make friends with the new templar...and who is utterly oblivious to how pretty Cullen thinks he is. Which is just as well, really, because Cullen needs all the help he can get keeping that a secret.(It doesn't work, literally everyone else in the Circle knows.)
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford & Surana
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

Cullen cut his eyes upwards briefly when he heard an alarmed yelp on the other side of the Circle’s vast library; a second later, there was an explosion, then a few irritated voices shushing the culprit. He frowned for a moment, then shook his head and looked back down at his book, telling himself it was _probably_ nothing. The mages were very good at keeping their work…contained, for lack of a better word…and none of the other templars seemed to pay it any attention, most of the time.

He wasn’t sure he was ever going to get used to it, though. When he’d said as much to Marisa—a fellow templar who was close to his age, but who had already been in Kinloch Hold for a year before he’d arrived—she’d just laughed and said he’d “get used to it sooner or later, if you want to sleep”.

He sighed, trying to find his place again. It wasn’t entirely unusual for the templars to make use of the Circle’s library, but it wasn’t exactly common, either; after all, most of the books regarded magic, and that was of little use to anyone except a mage. They had other books, though—history, countless studies on plants and animals from every known corner of the world, and so on—and Cullen had a bit of a soft spot for all the ones on magic, anyway. He couldn’t use the knowledge himself, of course, and scholarly studies on the various magical arts didn’t usually give him much insight into how to combat them, but it was still fascinating to read about—even if he didn’t entirely understand it, sometimes.

“What’re you reading?”

Cullen’s head snapped up at the voice, very close to his face, and right back into the bookshelf he’d wedged himself against. He swore, cradling his head and wincing as a few volumes tumbled to the floor around him.

Whoever had spoken broke out into laughter, then bent to retrieve the books; despite his wincing, Cullen caught a flash of slender, pale hands and blue sleeves: one of the mage apprentices. He blew out a breath between his teeth, finally managing to look up.

He was an elf, light-skinned with short, black hair. “Sorry,” he said, a little sheepish, “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Cullen started to answer, but it caught in his throat when the apprentice straightened and looked down at him, apologetic.

His eyes were _incredibly_ blue—the kind of blue of a clear sky at midday, and it made Cullen suddenly forget what he’d meant to say. He also had markings on his face like a Dalish elf: one half of his face was almost entirely black, from just below his eyes up, with the only unmarked skin forming twisting shapes that, after a moment, he recognized as stylized, thorny vines. The other side was the same thing in reverse: black vines on unmarked skin, with the split right down the center of his forehead and nose. Either way, it was striking, and the stark black only served to accentuate the blue of his eyes.

Cullen cleared his throat, blinking rapidly. _What had he—? Oh._ “Oh. I…i-it’s fine. I…ah.”

The apprentice beamed at the response, his face lighting up—and Cullen felt his cheeks heat in answer and froze for a moment, unsure what to do—before turning his attention away from Cullen long enough to put the books back. He was very tall, Cullen realized suddenly—or maybe he only looked that way, since he was also thin. And…also because Cullen was sitting, probably. _But that’s normal for elves, isn’t it? So I suppose by elvish standards, he was probably quite average…_

The elf crouched down beside him when he’d finished putting the books back, and Cullen swallowed around the sudden tightness in his throat. “So,” he began, “you didn’t answer me. What’re you reading?”

“Oh! I…ah…” Cullen hesitated, looking down at the book in his lap and fingering the edge of the page uneasily. He knew the other templars tended to think it was a bit silly for him to read any of the books about magic—and, well, it _was,_ really—but he could only imagine what the _mages_ must think of it. “ _A Study of Primal Forces,_ by—“

“—by Senior Enchanter Keenan Crespin, written in 7:86 Storm, right?” Before Cullen could answer, he nodded, then continued, “I’ve read that one a lot. Well, I’ve read a lot of these, actually. But especially that one. Primal magic is one of my strong points. Well, electricity, really, but I’m not bad with fire either. Not so much ice—my sister likes ice, but I never got the hang of it, so much, it doesn’t _feel_ right. Does that make sense?” He took a breath, then continued before Cullen could respond, “Of course, that book was written two ages ago, so it’s a little outdated, especially in regards to his theories on how our bodies channel magic and his _ridiculous_ belief that we need an environmental source to pull from, but—“

Cullen broke into a little smile as the elf continued to talk, faster and more enthusiastic with every passing second. He hadn’t spoken to the mages very often, but it was nice to see at least one of them had a passion for what he did.

And, well, he was really _cute._ A bit like an enthusiastic puppy, really.

The elf blinked a few times, then cut off with a sheepish little grin. “…sorry,” he said, “I just realized that…well, you’re not a mage. It’s not like you’d know. I mean, not really.” He paused, then blinked rapidly at Cullen, cocking his head. His ears flicked and pricked upwards, like an animal’s. It was bizarre and _cute._ And did nothing to help Cullen’s mental comparison of him to a puppy. “Wait, you’re _not_ a mage. That’s weird. We _never_ see templars in here…” He trailed off, then glanced up, flicking those big blue eyes pointedly. Cullen followed the look through the bookshelves, to one of the other templars, standing watch nearby and looking extremely _bored_ by it _._ Cullen sympathized; he often got guard duty is the less-exciting areas of the tower, himself.

“You know. Reading.” He glanced back at the elf when he continued. “Especially about magic. Why _are_ you…?”

“I…well, i-it’s interesting. Even if I’m not…”

“…a mage?”

Cullen let out a breath. “Right.”

The elf was silent for a moment, then he beamed at him again, making his chest go a little tight.

“I’m Aetir,” he said. “What’s your name? You’re new, right? I think I’ve seen you a couple times, but I know most of the templars by now, and I don’t know you.”

“Cullen,” he answered, a little soft. “I, ah…y-yes. It’s my first year.”

Aetir’s ears flicked, just once, and he grinned for a moment. “It’s my eleventh.” He let out a short little laugh, then shot to his feet suddenly. Cullen jumped a little, blinking in surprise at the elf as he moved to retrieve a few books from the shelf behind him.

“Here,” he said, sitting back down beside Cullen and depositing the armload of books. For a second, Cullen marveled at him: Aetir looked so _thin_ under his robes, and yet he was hauling around several heavy tomes like it was nothing. Of course, he realized the elf must have been doing that for _years_ , but still…

He shook his head, glancing down at the books as Aetir spread them out. The elf was already talking, and Cullen could barely keep up.

“…this one is really better for a more accurate view of our current knowledge on primal magic, but it’s a bit hard to follow if you don’t already have a solid grasp of the baseline foundations, so for that you’ll probably want to look at this—just enough to get the basics, you know? No reason to read the whole thing, I mean obviously _you_ won’t be _using_ it and the stuff in the back is all boring practice—but then _this_ has some interesting alternate theories and I’m not saying I completely agree with them but her ideas on how temperature reacts to charge our magic is _fascinating_ , especially in regards to electricity, but I mean, _I’m_ biased so don’t take my word for it…”

Cullen couldn’t help but break into a little smile as the elf talked, though he did his best to hide it when he realized. He cleared his throat quietly when Aetir paused for breath, then said, “You’re…v-very enthusiastic about this, I see…”

The elf grinned, shrugging loosely. “Nah. Well, maybe a little. It’s just nice to see a _templar_ interested, you know?” He sighed, then added with a dismissive gesture, “Anyway, I’m tired of arguing with my sister about it. Either she agrees with me, or she’s _wrong_ but won’t admit it, so…”

Cullen tilted his head at that. “Your sister?” It was a bit unusual for mages to have family members in the Circle, but not impossible—magic ran in bloodlines, after all, so it wouldn’t be too far-fetched for siblings to end up in a Circle together.

“Yeah. Aellai.” Aetir gestured to his face. “Looks just like me, except short. And her tattoos are different. But she’s my sister, you can tell.” Before Cullen could answer, he added, “We’re both top of the class. So, you know, it’s a little easier to talk about it with her. Plus, she’s read all the books anyway.” He sighed, lacing his slender, pale fingers together. “It gets kind of boring, sometimes, always having to debate with her. Especially when she doesn’t _want_ to. So, you know, someone new is fun.”

Cullen felt his cheeks heat a little at that, and he cleared his throat, quietly. “I…I-I’m not sure I’d b-be much good at…” If Aetir was top of his class—in something he’d studied for eleven years—how was Cullen supposed to be able to keep up? He could barely keep up with him right _now._

Aetir looked up, his ears lifting. “Don’t be silly! It’ll be fun to talk to someone who isn’t a mage about it. You’ll have different ideas!” The elf blinked, then his ears dropped, and he added, a little quieter, “Of course…not that I’m saying we _have_ to, or anything. Just, you know, if you’re ever interested. Sorry. Getting ahead of myself.”

Cullen straightened a little, clearing his throat, suddenly willing to do whatever he needed to to get rid of that crestfallen look on Aetir’s face. “I…n-no, I mean…” He took a breath. “I mean…i-if I can keep up…okay.”

Aetir brightened at that, and Cullen felt a little wash of relief even though his smile made it hard to breathe. “Okay. Sure. I’ll go easy on you, yeah?” He broke into a grin, then scooted a little closer to look down at the book in Cullen’s lap, seemingly oblivious to the way the movement made Cullen’s chest clench. “So where are you, anyway?”

Cullen cleared his throat again, exhaling slowly as he looked down. “Ah, I j-just got to chapter f-five…”


	2. Chapter 2

“Hello, Cullen.”

Cullen jerked out of his thoughts when he heard his name, looking up guiltily, a moment before he realized who had spoken: not one of his superiors, but a mage—or an apprentice, more accurately. He felt his face heat as the elf in question cocked his head, ears pricking in a terribly _adorable_ way, his eyes bright. Cullen’s throat had gone dry, and he swallowed, hard.

“A…Aetir. H-hello.” He took a breath, then added, “Did you…did you need something?”

“Not particularly. You just looked horribly bored over here, so I thought I’d say hi.” Aetir glanced around—they were in one of the Circle’s hallways, empty right now due to the fact that the mages were either studying or working on their own projects elsewhere. Except for one, apparently.

“Oh. I, uh. I…sh-shouldn’t you be…studying, or something?” Cullen stiffened when he realized how that sounded, and he added quickly, “I m-mean! Not that you _n-need_ to— I just thought— _Maker’s breath._ ”

Aetir cut him off with a short little laugh that made Cullen’s breath catch. The elf grinned at him, bright and cheerful. “Don’t worry, Cullen. I know what you mean.” He paused, then added, “Ah… _Ser_ Cullen. Sorry.”

“N-no, it’s…it’s fine.” _No it’s not,_ he told himself irritably—he _knew_ Aetir should be using his title, shouldn’t be just calling him by his first name. It was too informal.

But what was it hurting, really, if nobody else knew? And part of him—a very silly part, probably—hoped they could be friends. He didn’t know Aetir well—or any of the mages, for that matter—but the elf was well-known among the other templars. “A nuisance”, the knight-commander called him, “and too smart for his own good.” Many of the others found him annoying at best and a potential danger at worst, but Cullen hadn’t seen that in his year at the Circle; as far as he’d seen, Aetir was brilliant, passionate, and amazingly sure of himself. And, near as Cullen could tell, he had every _right_ to be sure of himself. The elf was incredibly skilled despite his age, and Irving himself had taken it upon himself to mentor him. Aetir was mesmerizing.

“Cullen, then,” he said, startling the templar out of his thoughts. The elf moved to lean against the wall beside him and Cullen felt his face warm, though he wasn’t sure why. Aetir cocked his head, looking up at him for a second—Cullen couldn’t help but feel, uncomfortably, like he was being scrutinized under that bright blue gaze—then at the empty hallway. His brows pulled together in a little thoughtful frown.

“Do you always make a habit of guarding hallways with nothing in them? Aren’t you supposed to be breathing down the back of our necks all the time?”

Cullen felt a strange mix of emotions bubble up at the question. The first was a rush of indignant annoyance—the templars existed to protect people, not to harass mages, like Aetir made it sound—and the second was embarrassment when he realized that it must not seem that way to _them_ , practically locked in a tower for their whole lives. He was aware some of the older templars could be harsh, and not many of them tried to work out an understanding with their charges. There was a little annoying wash of shame, too; he didn’t want Aetir to think badly of him, not now. They'd only spoken a few times, but Cullen thought they were getting on fairly well, all things considered.

“It’s not like that,” he answered before he could stop himself, sounding more hurt than he’d intended. Aetir looked up at him again, and his ears flicked, then dropped—and for a second, Cullen wished he hadn’t said anything in defense of his Order.

“Wha…oh. I’m sorry, Cullen, that came out wrong, didn’t it?” The elf sighed, looking away and reaching up to ruffle his short, black hair. “I just meant there’s not much to guard here, that’s all. I mean, look—“ He threw his arms out, almost touching Cullen, and the templar tensed, face heating. “—I’m the only mage here. So, you know…?”

“R-right. Of course. S-sorry.” Cullen let out a slow breath, relaxing when Aetir crossed his arms over his chest. Realizing the question Aetir had first asked, he cleared his throat, then added, “We…there are p-plenty of templars here to guard the mages. And…as the… _o-one_ of the junior members of the Order…”

“…you get the crap jobs?” Cullen choked a little, making a noise caught between a laugh and some kind of mortified yelp. Aetir’s triumphant little grin made it better, though.

“I…yes,” he admitted. He paused for a moment, then blinked when he realized. “You…n-never answered my question. About why you’re h-here.”

Aetir blinked at him, then grinned again, sheepish this time. “Oh…yeah.” He gave a little shrug. “I’m pretty much finished with my studies. I’m just waiting.”

Cullen paused for a moment, thinking. He hadn’t yet been in the Circle long enough to be sure of the usual intricacies of a mage’s education, but he could hazard a guess as to what Aetir meant.

“For your H…Harrowing, you mean?” He didn’t want to think about it too hard. He’d attended a few Harrowings since coming to Kinloch Hold; those ones had gone fine, but sometimes they didn’t. And when a Harrowing went badly, the mage had to be killed. It was a tragedy, but a necessary one: any mage who failed their Harrowing was an abomination, after all. Luckily, that hadn't been a problem yet, and Cullen didn't think failed Harrowings _were_ very common here...but, nonetheless, the threat of it was there.

He didn’t want Aetir to be one of those.

The elf nodded, oblivious to his thoughts on the subject. “It should be soon.” He looked up at Cullen, cocking an eyebrow, and eyed him slyly for a moment. “…shouldn’t it?”

“I…I wouldn’t know,” Cullen answered quickly. The mages themselves determined when an apprentice was ready and informed the knight-commander; Cullen had never known about any of the Harrowings he’d attended until the day of them. Maybe the older templars learned beforehand, he wasn’t sure. “The F-First Enchanter is the one who d-decides, I believe.”

Aetir huffed out a little breath, pouting for a moment. It was very distracting. “And he won’t tell me. I already tried that.”

Cullen couldn’t help but let out a short little laugh at that, and the petulant tone in his voice. “I’m sure it will be soon, if you’re ready. I m-mean, you are. I’m sure. I hear.” He closed his eyes, telling himself to shut up. “…I’m s-sure you’re ready,” he finished, sounding like an idiot.

“Of course I am. I’ve _been_ ready,” Aetir answered with a little sigh.

“You’re so sure of yourself,” Cullen said before he could catch himself, unable to keep his eyes off the elf beside him. He looked young: Cullen’s age, maybe a year older or younger, though he'd never asked. And that seemed _so_ young for a Harrowing. Admittedly, he _was_ an elf, so he might look younger than he was, but even so... Distantly, Cullen realized it was ridiculous to think so: after all, he'd become a fully-fledged templar at the same age Aetir was awaiting his Harrowing, or thereabouts. But his vows hadn't involved facing down demons in the Fade to prove himself, either...and without so much as a warning or chance to prepare himself. He knew the logic behind it—demons targeted mages, and they wouldn't be so polite as to let a potential host mentally prepare themselves, so during a Harrowing, mages must be tested at their weakest—but it still seemed...a bit harsh. Though he supposed it was not without good reason.

“Why not?” Aetir glanced at him. “I know my skills. What is there to be afraid of?”

 _Everything?_ Cullen answered, though he had to sense to keep _that_ answer in his head. _Demons, or people hating you for something you haven't done, or even your own magic, or…_ He let the thought trail off, shaking his head a little. He wouldn’t have been a very good mage, he thought.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Aetir was glancing around—up and down the hallway, at the ceiling, towards his feet—and fidgeting a little in place, and Cullen was stealing little looks at him, and trying not to be obvious about it. The elf seemed restless and bored, and part of Cullen worried he would leave to find something else more interesting to do than talk to a templar. He swallowed, trying to think of something interesting to say, even though it seemed like he’d suddenly forgotten how to do so.

“You…” He took a breath when Aetir looked at him and he realized he’d spoken. It was too late now, though, so he swallowed, trying to steady himself and ignore the nervous hammering in his chest.

“The markings on your face…I th-thought only the Dalish had those.” _There._ He hoped suddenly that that wasn’t some sort of…rude, culturally ignorant thing to ask an elf. _Did that matter? Was that something you weren’t supposed to mention?_ He couldn’t remember any of the other elves in the tower having markings like Aetir’s, though. Except for his sister, Aellai, at least. Cullen had seen her once or twice—with Aetir, mostly, and once in the library by herself—and she was, as Aetir had told him, obviously his sister. She was his twin, actually, and the resemblance was impossible to overlook: like her brother, she was pale, black-haired, with bright eyes (amber, though, not Aetir's blue) and black markings on her face. Pretty. Intimidating, too, unlike Aetir...despite the fact that she was probably a foot shorter than Cullen.

But, still. Just because none of the other elves seemed to have them, or anything similar...well. Still.

“Oh, these?” Aetir reached up to touch the black curve on his right cheek, just under his eye, and Cullen took the opportunity to study them: twining thorns on the right side, and the same image in reverse on the left. Cullen wondered if the marked areas felt different from the rest of his skin, and the thought made his cheeks grow hot.

Aetir shrugged, apparently not noticing Cullen’s blush. “They’re called _vallaslin_. My mother is Dalish. All the Dalish get them when they get old enough. Rite of passage thing, right? But...well, we were taken from her before we could, so…”

“Oh.” Cullen hesitated for a moment, fighting the urge to frown. He knew, of course, that many mages were taken from their parents when their magic manifested…but to hear Aetir say it like _that_ made it sound…

“But…we don’t…” He hesitated, trying to think of the word. _Harass? No, too harsh._ “…see the Dalish very often...or deal with their mages. How…”

“She lives in an alienage,” Aetir answered. “Her clan…" He hesitated for a second, then corrected himself: "... _our_ clan was killed, just before we were born. My sister and I, I mean. Mamae couldn’t travel very far, so she went to the city, where she had us.” He sighed and looked away, his ears drooping. For a moment, he was quiet, then he added, a bit softer: “We were going to leave, you know. Find another clan to take us in. But then…”

 _But then we took you,_ Cullen finished in his head, guiltily. He told himself it was a necessary thing—they couldn’t let mages simply run free—and probably for the best, but the reassurances sounded hollow in his head.

“Do they m-mean anything?” He asked, hoping to steer the conversation somewhere more light-hearted. Aetir’s ears pricked and Cullen let out a little relieved breath.

“They represent our gods. There’s all sorts of different designs—one for each god—and Aellai found a book with them in the library.” He beamed proudly at the fact. “Of course, they vary a little between clans…but the motifs are the same, you know? So you can usually tell what they mean. And Mamae taught us about ours, so we figured it out from there.”

“And…yours?” Cullen traced the branching thorns with his eyes, wondering what sort of god they were meant to honor. He was only passingly familiar with the elvish gods as it was, anyway, and didn't even trust himself to be sure of the names of any of them, much less design motifs associated with them.

“Elgar’nan,” Aetir answered. “The first of the gods, and the god of the sun.” He was silent for a second, like he meant to say more, than he added, a bit quieter: “And vengeance.”

Cullen didn’t answer, his chest tightening a little. Suddenly, those thorns seemed to have new meaning, and it made his gut clench a little in alarm. He was no expert on the Dalish or their ways, but common sense dictated that you would need to feel _very_ strongly about something to get it permanently inscribed into your flesh—especially on your face. And Aetir had chosen the god of _vengeance._

“Oh,” Cullen said finally, trying to ignore the nervous feeling. He was just overreacting—he didn’t know anything about the Dalish, after all. It probably wasn’t that simple. “Well. Th-they’re…impressive.” He cringed inwardly when he realized what he’d said, but Aetir looked up—and broke into a little smile that made Cullen’s face heat and heart race.

“Thanks,” he answered, a little quiet. He cleared his throat, then added quickly, “They’d better be, it was a pain in the ass to get them. Or…face, I guess.”

“Really?” Cullen blinked, fighting off the urge to touch Aetir’s cheek. Again. Not that it would matter if he did—his gloves would be in the way. “H-how did you…?”

“One of the other mages knows how to do it,” Aetir answered. “So _I_ didn’t put them there. But it involves a lot of ink, and a lot of needles. Took a whole night.” He sighed. “At least I could heal it immediately, though…”

Cullen winced at the mental image. He wasn’t sure how that all worked out together, but he was quite sure he didn’t _want_ to know— _needles_ had already told him plenty. And Aetir had let someone do that? To his _face?_

“You’re very brave,” he muttered, half to himself, and Aetir laughed.

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, really. It doesn’t hurt so much after a while. Anyway, you’re not supposed to make noise…if you do, you’re not ready.” He paused, then added, “Ah…that’s a Dalish thing, I mean, not a normal thing. But, it can’t be that bad, right? Or none of the Dalish would manage to get them.”

“I g-guess not,” Cullen answered, mentally reeling a little at that. _How were you supposed to not make noise when you’re getting stabbed in the **face?** Or whatever it is they do?_

Before either of them could say anything, there was the distant sound of armored boots approaching. Aetir pushed himself off the wall, turning towards Cullen.

“Anyway, it sounds like your people are coming. I’d better go before I get you in trouble.” He flashed Cullen a bright grin. “We can talk some other time, alright?”

Cullen flushed and was too tongue-tied to give him a proper answer before the mage turned and headed off down the hall, disappearing into a doorway.

“…alright,” he finally said to himself, quietly, feeling a warm flush beginning somewhere in his chest. He cleared his throat, looking up abruptly as two other templars passed by, nodding briefly in acknowledgement to him as they headed off on their own business.

Cullen only allowed himself to break into a giddy little grin once they’d passed.


End file.
